Blank Heart, Paper Girl
by littlestrangesoul
Summary: Lydia runs away, desperate to escape the emptiness in her life. But sometimes the only way to heal is to come home again. Stiles/Lydia
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I will forever be a fan of writing Lydia. She is such a wonderful character and I think all the ways her story could go are amazing. I think the show has a really hard time addressing grief in an appropriate way, so this is my outlet for how I wish the show had handled Lydia losing her best friend - and essentially losing Stiles as a romantic interest as well this season. She's off by herself already, so I wondered what it would be like if she really just picked up and left. Please read and review!

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><p><strong>Blank Heart, Paper Girl<strong>

Lydia had left for school a year earlier than planned. She had surprised everyone – one day she was there, the next she was packing up her life. Not that she had brought much. Her life has become so small, so horribly blank that there was nothing left for her, at least in her mind. She was a paper cut out of the girl she used to be, and she desperately wanted to be real again.

...

She had met Dave the first week of her freshman year. She had been sitting outside the campus coffee shop, already engrossed in her advanced physics textbook, when he had laughed loudly across the small courtyard, cutting through her focus. Already annoyed at all the _people_, her eyes shot to him immediately, accusing him with her stare. He had merely grinned back, lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth. She remembers wrinkling her nose in response, turning back down to her book and primly crossing her legs.

It hadn't been more than a few minutes until he had made his way over, cigarette smoke hanging over her head as he exhaled slowly, before announcing his presence with a smack of his hand on the table. She had jumped, looking up at him through smoke and sunshine, her face fixed in a scowl. He smirked down at her, his choppy blonde hair catching in the wind, backing away slowly with a nod of his head. She looked down at the table, fingers cautiously picking up the ridiculously drawn flyer for some band called _Wallpaper Airplanes._ Apparently, they were playing that night.

She snorted derisively and pinned the flyer under her iced coffee, turning her attention back to her book. It wasn't until later when she was back in her dorm, bare feet propped up against her window frame as she watched the sun setting behind the trees that she thought of it again. "_Well,_" she thought, _"it's better than another night alone._" So she slipped on her worn leather jacket and flats (she had finally sworn off heels) and headed to the seedy off campus bar, flyer clutched tightly in hand.

The bar was packed. She squeezed her way to the front of the crowd, holding her purse protectively in front of her. The band hadn't started yet, but she spotted the tall, skinny blonde guy from the courtyard fiddling with one of the amps on the stage. With his confidence, she had grudgingly assumed he would be lead singer, but was surprised to find him positioning himself to the left of the spotlight, strumming on an old electric guitar absentmindedly as the rest of the band clamored on stage. As they began their set, she couldn't help but admit what the screaming girls around her had already indicated – they were pretty damn good.

After the show, she had planned to slip away unnoticed, curiosity sated and the night spent doing something other than staring at her phone. But he wound his way through the crowd before she could escape, two beers in hand and that grin overtaking his face.

"Hey, you came…wow, okay you're really here. Oh, yeah, this is for you!" he seems nervous, holding out one of the beer bottles almost cautiously.

She feels a little suspicious, naturally. But there are no scales or glowing eyes or baseball bats and at this very moment, she can't feel death prickling under her skin. She's tired of waiting for phone calls and words she never thought she'd miss. So she makes a choice, flipping her long red hair in that confident way only she knows how, and grins back at him, delicately taking the offered drink.

"Yeah, I thought I'd check it out. You guys were pretty good up there. I'm Lydia."

His eyes widen slightly, as though drinking her in and she feels that feeling she used to get when _he_ looked at her. Like she was beautiful. Like she was important.

"I'm Dave."

...

From then on, they are inseparable. His long fingers are always flitting around her, up and down her spine, winding through her hair, grazing the soft skin of her cheeks. Her new favorite place to study becomes his worn old couch, feet propped up in his lap. He's writing songs about her and she's blushing when he dedicates them to her loudly and embarrassingly in the bar where they first met. She spends her nights with him, allowing herself to wind around him, warding off the cold she always feels with his warmth. It's enough to almost make her forget where she came from – almost enough to forget the darkness that swallowed her life.

Dave gets used to picking her up in random places. After the first few times, he never really asks why, merely accepting that this was how she was. She knows it scares him, and it scares her too. She doesn't want him to run away and the first time he finds her, barefoot and bloody, she knows it's only a matter of time. The way he holds her after – as though he doesn't quite know who she is - is a clear indicator. He's no boy with a baseball bat. He might never understand.

But she forces herself to forget that, to forget _him_, because she's being adored again. Dave writes her poems and sticks them in her textbooks. He comes to her scholarship banquets, grudgingly wearing the tie she bought him, and sarcastically puts her tests on the fridge. He loves her. And that's enough.

...

Lydia wakes up in the middle of the night with a start. She can feel Dave beside her, arm slung around her hip, but it gives her little comfort. Today's the day. Actually, there are a lot of days she dreads. So many people dead, littering her past with anniversaries of horrors she could never tell anyone else about. But today's the one she fears the most. She sees her phone lighting up the bedside table, and is both terrified and relieved to see a message from Scott McCall pop up.

_Hey Lydia, we haven't heard from you in a while. We miss you. All of us. I hope you're okay. Call me, if you can._

She's startled by the rush of affection she feels for Scott. They really haven't talked in months, since she left for school. And she had started pulling away from her friends long before that. If she was being honest with herself, she slipped away the moment that Malia Tate had come into their lives. Or came into _his_ life.

But her best friend died today. And Scott's ex girlfriend, the love of his life, died today. She can still remember it so clearly, eyes filling up with tears as she relieves the pain of that feeling – the feeling of her best friend leaving this world. It was like someone had ripped a hole in her chest. She had screamed and screamed until finally someone had come to get her, and she worries now that maybe something had broken inside her in that tunnel.

She doesn't realize she's crying in earnest until she feels Dave shifting next to her, sitting up to wrap an arm around her shaking shoulders.

"Hey, hey, babe, what's wrong?" He's muttering comforting words into her neck, but she can't make her mouth form coherent thoughts. She hasn't cried like this in a long time. When she manages to choke back her tears long enough, it's only one word that comes out.

"Allison."

"Lydia, who's Allison? You're scaring me, what's going on?" His hands are on either side of her face now, trying to gently force her into looking at him.

She can't help but cry even harder. She had never told him. She had never even mentioned the girl who had changed her life, who had made her a better person. She can picture Allison's bright smile in her mind and she hates herself for not telling Dave about her. For not sharing every detail of a life so beautiful – a life that deserved remembering. She thinks that if Allison were here right now, she would be disappointed in her.

"_You can't run and hide from your life, Lydia."_

Dave is still talking at her, hands gentle in her hair now, but she can only see swords and long, dark hair and boys with dark circles under their eyes. And laughing in the cafeteria and long car rides in a beat up jeep and Allison wrinkling her nose at something Scott said. It's as though her life is swirling behind her eyes, the horrible and the wonderful and all the people she left behind. She's closing her eyes against the onslaught she's been fighting so hard to prevent for all these months, trying to turn her face away from this boy who doesn't know her, not _really_.

"Lydia, come on, look at me. Honey, you're beautiful when you cry, you don't have to turn away. Tell me what's wrong."

He's pleading with her and she knows it's wrong to not say something. Anything. But instead, she's pushing him away forcefully, eyes wild, heart pounding in her ears. She leaps out of bed, snatching her phone, propelling herself down his dark hallway and out into the night. She can hear him behind her, calling her name, but she can't stop. It's only once she's in her car, headlights illuminating Dave standing there, staring at her desperately, that she registers the horrible feeling in her stomach.

"_I think you look really beautiful when you cry."_

...

It's not just Allison that she mourns. It's him. It's Stiles, too. The boy who used to look at her like she was his personal sun. Who used to adore her the way Dave adores her now. He had even gone a step further, worming his way into her soul, seeing her for who she was. Broken. Lost. He might have even loved her for that, at least for a little while.

She's driving with no direction, not something that's entirely new for her. But it's not death chasing her away from Dave, from safety. It's her memories. She pulls the car over suddenly, hands fumbling with her cell phone. Scott said to call if she could. He didn't say who.

She sits numbly, praying both that he answers and that he continues whatever silent game they've been playing for months.

"Lydia? Lydia…are you there?"

His voice sounds both sleepy and surprised all at once and she's forced to remember a thousand of these phone calls. She always used to call him in the middle of the night when she was scared. She doesn't know why she thought he wouldn't answer. He always did.

"Lydia, I know you can hear me. Are you okay? …I-I miss you."

She can picture him sitting up in bed, hair all messy, eyes anxious. She wonders if Malia is beside him, if she can hear Lydia's tearful breathing through the phone. That thought sends her reeling, hanging up without a second thought. It's too much. He's always been too much.

...

Lydia lays her head on the steering wheel, exhausted. Sometimes it feels like she's lived a thousand years in her young life. She's so tired. And the tears are still falling, and she's whispering to herself the only thing she can think.

_I miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you_

She misses Allison and she misses Scott and she misses Isaac and Aiden and Ethan and Derek and Kira and she misses Stiles desperately. Most of all, she misses herself. She misses the person she was when they were all together. When she had a pack. When she had a family.

She thought college would fix something in her. She thought she could color in the blank places of her heart here, that she could fill up the spaces left by all the people she had loved and lost. But she knows now how foolish that was.

Lydia Martin puts her car in drive, wiping the tears from her face determinedly. She's headed in the only direction she knows. She can almost feel Allison in the passenger seat beside her, beaming with pride. She wasn't running away anymore. She was going home. Back to Beacon Hills. Back to Stiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for reading and reviewing this story so far! I love to hear what y'all think, so please keep reviewing! It means so much!

This chapter might not have a lot of Stiles, but I decided while writing that while this may be a "Stydia" story, it wouldn't do justice to Lydia's journey to have her fall right into his lap the second she rolls back into town. A lot has happened to the both of them while she's been gone that will be explored, as well as Lydia's relationships with the other people in her life. But don't worry, there will be some good moments in the next chapter! Again, thanks for reading!

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><p>The sun is rising by the time Lydia speeds past the ironically cheery "Welcome to Beacon Hills" sign. The whispers in her head, nearly silent the past few months, intensify in a wave so loud she has to close her eyes for a second to adjust. She had forgotten the threat of being here. So many people that could die, so many people that already had. And they loved talking to her.<p>

The one she wants to hear the most, however, is nowhere to be heard.

Taking deep, gulping breaths, Lydia steers her car past all the places she had hoped to never see again. The hospital, where the nogistune had slaughtered an entire nursing staff. The high school, where she had been nearly choked to death, where she had kissed Stiles on the locker room floor, where she had first spotted Allison and decided immediately to be her best friend. The lacrosse field, where she had nearly died and where she had screamed in joy when Stiles had scored his first goal. There was no escaping the past here. She could see her friends everywhere. She could almost see the Lydia of old, heels tall and chin turned haughtily upward, right there alongside them.

As she pulls into her driveway, her childhood home looming in front of her, she lets out a small sigh of relief. She had made it. There was the issue of clothes and classes and a boy she had left behind, but right now she was just grateful that the long night was over.

She opens the front door as quietly as possible, her house key sticking a bit from disuse. It's early, the sun slanting in through the large bay windows in her kitchen. Enjoying the feeling of sunshine on her face, Lydia begins rummaging around, suddenly famished. She's halfway through frying bacon when her mom appears in the doorway, looking at her strangely, as though she might not be there at all.

"Lydia? Lydia, honey, what are you doing here? Oh god, what's happened to you?" She sounds so concerned that Lydia is suddenly afraid. What has happened to her? Does she not remember doing something? Is she covered in blood again?

She looks down at herself in response, gauging her appearance. Not the worst she's ever been, but not the best. Her feet are dirty from her run to her car and there's dried blood on her hands from where she had squeezed her fists tight, nails digging into her skin. She knows she must look half crazed from all her crying, too. But nothing too bad. Not death this time.

"Mom, don't freak out. I just…I needed to come home for a bit." Feeling a sudden rush of affection, she makes her way over to her mom, arms wrapping around her neck. Her mom squeezes her back instantly, and suddenly Lydia is five years old again. And she can't help but let a few tears escape.

"Mom…I don't think I'm okay. I'm not okay. I'm so sorry. I'm so so sorry." She doesn't know why she's apologizing. Maybe for leaving. Maybe for not calling. But her mom just hugs her even tighter, hands braced against her back, supporting her even as her tears turn into sobs.

"Lydia, you have nothing to be sorry for. It was too soon, and that's okay. I love you, honey. So much."

She's never told her mom everything. And she probably never will. But this, right now, feels really good. She can get through seeing her old friends and hearing whispers in the dark if she has this. Suddenly, being home feels more right than it has in years.

The crackling of bacon makes her mom pull away with a start. Lydia can't help but give a watery laugh in response, moving to turn off the stove. Her mom moves instinctively too, reaching to get plates out of the cabinet, popping some toast in the toaster. She starts talking, filling Lydia in on all that she's missed, carefully circumventing any mention of the people Lydia wants to hear most about. And she's grateful.

...

Lydia has been laying in her bed for an hour. Her mom had insisted she try and sleep, but it's just not working. She's just not used to sleeping in a bed alone anymore. For the first time, she feels a rush of guilt about Dave. Feeling for her phone in the comforter, she grimaces when she turns it back on and reads through the text messages and missed calls popping up in a wave.

_1:00 AM: Where did you go? What's going on?_

_1:10 AM: Lydia, where did you go? Please answer this. I'm really worried._

_2:00 AM: Look, I know that I don't know everything about you. And obviously something is wrong. But I love you and we have to talk about this. Please talk to me. _

_4:30 AM: I love you. Call me, please._

Her stomach churns as she pictures his face illuminated by her headlights, pictures him waiting up all night for her to call. She's always loved people selfishly and he was no exception. But she still can't bring herself to respond, fingers hovering over the screen. What could she say?

_My best friend died and I never told you. But now I can't handle it and I had to go home. Oh, and I've been in love with someone else since the day I met you. _

Nothing feels fair or right. And so nothing is what she chooses to say, throwing her phone to the side and curling in on herself, praying for sleep.

...

Her mom looks at her concernedly as she makes her way downstairs.

"Are you sure you're up for this? Did you get enough sleep? I can drive you, if you want...Lydia, honey, that skirt is ridiculous." It's a strange mix of worry and chagrin and Lydia can't help but roll her eyes, feeling sixteen again.

"I'm fine, Mom. And yes, I know. But I left all my good clothes at school, remember?" As defensive as she sounds, she still tugs down her flouncy mini-skirt a bit. She had paired it with the largest cardigan she could find, trying her best to not feel like her high school self. And knee high boots were the only non-heeled shoes left in her closet. What had she been thinking back then?

Face tightening slightly at the mention of school, her mom nods. "Do you…do you want me to go get the clothes for you? Or call your roommate to box them up? I can do that…if you want to stay."

Lydia bites her lip, wondering what she should say. Besides Dave, she really had nothing for her there. But, really, she has no idea what she has left for her here. It's not like she can live in these clothes until she makes her decision, though.

"Yeah…yeah, if you could. That would be great."

Her mom can barely hide her smile.

...

She gets out of her car hesitantly, the wind catching in her hair. Besides that, there's no movement in the cemetery. She feels weird being here. She thought, before they buried Allison, that she would feel her more in this place. Maybe even see her, if she was lucky – she didn't know the full extent of her powers. But every time she had come here, she had been overwhelmed by the emptiness of it. Still, today was the kind of day where you braved those feelings.

They had buried her next to her mom. They had had such a complicated relationship that Lydia always found it disconcerting to see their names side by side on such a final piece of stone. But here she was. Allison Argent. Originally, Lydia had questioned whether she should be buried here at all. But Chris Argent had been clear that this family, despite everything that had happened, had never felt more at home anywhere else.

She hadn't brought flowers and she doesn't really know what to do with herself. She wants to feel close to Allison, but she doesn't know how. She thinks about her, all alone underneath the dirt. Lydia hates the idea of her being alone. Without thinking, she unceremoniously lays herself down on the ground, back pressed against the soft grass.

When she's looking up at the sky, she can nearly forget she's in a graveyard – that Allison lays six feet beneath her, silent to the world. It's pretty here, and peaceful. And the sky is so so blue. Suddenly, she's reminded of a conversation from long ago. She had been insisting that pink was the perfect color to brighten Allison's room, and Allison had been convinced that blue would look beautiful. To her, the blue of the sky above her head and the blue from her memories is the same.

Now even the sky hurts to look at. So she closes her eyes, picturing Allison laying beside her instead.

...

She's startled by a low cough. Lydia sits up quickly, eyes shooting open only to land on Scott McCall, pathetic looking flowers clutched in hand, looking a little shocked. For a second, they just stare at each other – her still sitting on Allison's grave, him wondering whether or not he should say something first. Eventually, he reaches out a hand, pulling her up to her feet. Without wasting any time, he's giving her a bone-crushing hug.

"Lydia! Oh my god, you're here! Wait, why are you here?!" He's pulling away from her just as quickly, momentarily forgetting why he's standing in a graveyard – he looks nearly joyful at seeing her again.

She can't help but smile back softly, tugging her cardigan around her frame protectively.

"It felt like I should be here today, you know?"

Scott nods in understanding at that, face somber once again. He reaches out a hand to catch one of hers comfortingly, and she can't help but squeeze his fingers slightly. Oh, Scott. She had really missed her friend.

"It's been hard without you, Lydia. We all missed you so much…how long are you here?" He sounds resigned, as though he knows this conversation won't last long. Lydia realizes that everyone is used to her running now. Used to her not answering calls, used to her not being there to witness their lives. That thought propels her into saying something she might regret later.

"Actually, I think I might be staying. For good."

Scott's smile is almost worth the nerves her statement sets off her in stomach.

...

Apparently, Scott hadn't found it as weird as Lydia had thought to find her sitting on his ex-girlfriend's grave. They had been sprawled out, facing each other, catching up next to Allison's tombstone for a while now. He never said it, but Lydia thought it was as though he was trying to include her in some way in their reunion. The thought made her happy. She knew Allison would be happy too.

"So how is everyone? How's Kira?" she questions, nudging him slightly, grinning. She liked Kira quite a lot, and she knew Allison had too. Scott deserved to be happy.

He blushes in response, nudging her right back. "She's fine, she's fine! She's going to be so excited to see you again, actually. Expect a lot of pizza nights with us. I mean, if you want."

Lydia doesn't know the last time she wanted anything more.

"I definitely want. But now you're going to have to start ordering the vegetarian again."

Scott makes a face, opening his mouth to retort before they both hear a car door slam. Whirling around to find the source of the noise, Lydia finds herself staring at a blue Jeep and suddenly the world is tilting strangely and her heart is racing. She wasn't ready. She couldn't do this. And she's still wearing this ridiculous skirt.

"Oh shit," Scott mutters from behind her, a reminder of both the way she left things and that she should really learn to control her nerves around a werewolf.

Oh shit is right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for reading and reviewing this story! It can sometimes be hard to write for Stiles/Lydia, simply because the response isn't as loud as it is in other fandoms (I write for Walking Dead, too.) But y'all are making me feel so loved. And here we are - the first REAL interaction between our two favorites. I hope you appreciate that they have a lot to work through and that Malia and Dave will both play a part in the story/not just be plot devices. Don't worry, I won't wait forever to get them together. Let me know what you think, as always!

Also, next chapter is my favorite thing - parties and drunk characters!

Song inspiration: _Here is Where - There Will Be Fireworks_

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><p>The look on his face is a new one for her. Sad, resigned, none of the young eagerness that had defined him before they really knew each other. He walks more purposefully than he used to and she wonders if that can be attributed to an aftershock from a possession that had turned him into a swaggering, smirking shell. Or maybe in her absence he had finally grown into who he was supposed to be. Maybe his love for her had stifled him before.<p>

He has his eyes focused on her as he approaches, winding between gravestone to reach them, but he doesn't say a word. Her senses feel very loud, and the slightest shift from Scott has her turning to look at him. He's standing up slowly, so she takes her cue and rises as well, self-consciously tugging down her skirt.

It's a strange thinking to look at someone you love after time away. You see things you never saw before. It's like you didn't appreciate them enough when they were right in front of you and the time apart has made you nostalgic and emotional over the moles dotting their neck or their anxious, long fingers. Lydia had been pretending for months to have changed, but this is the first time she feels it. It's like she has new eyes - did Stiles always have such pale skin? Did he always turn up the sides of his mouth that way?

And her lack of memory serves as another thing to feel guilty for.

As Stiles stops in front of them, Scott does his thing. The thing where he makes everyone around him uncomfortable in an attempt to diffuse tension. It's like the hammering of their combined heartbeats in his ears drives him slightly mad, because he's leaping between them, hugging Stiles much too enthusiastically - as though they're the ones who've been apart for months. Stiles reaches up to hug him back, albeit a little less excitably, dark eyes meeting Lydia's over his best friend's shoulder. She looks down.

"Stiles!" Scott all but shouts, and then realizing where he is and who he stands between and why they are all here, mumbles, "Glad you came."

His sudden shift in demeanor makes Stiles tear his gaze away from her face, features softening slightly as he registers that Scott is, as always, completely fucking this up. "Yeah man, of course." He claps Scott on the back, before glancing back at Lydia. She meets his eyes this time, and she knows he sees something he wasn't expecting from his quickly shifting expression. Anger. Sadness. Confusion. Guilt. Happiness. But all he says is a simple "Hey Lydia." He doesn't move to touch her.

"Hey, Stiles."

"Lydia's planning on sticking around a while. Isn't that awesome!?" Scott stays in between them, face tilted away from her so she can't see his expression. But she does catch the not so subtle glance he throws Allison's gravestone, and his intention is clear enough. _This isn't the time or place for whatever this is._

It's as though the brutal honesty of her tearful breathing and his admission of missing her can't translate past late night phone calls. Stiles face is impassive as he regards her. "Yeah, that really is. Lydia, that's great." It sounds earnest but distanced – he has no stakes in whether she's here or elsewhere, a phantom voice on a telephone line.

...

Silence settles between the three old friends, not altogether comfortable. Stiles breaks it first. He gestures to the tombstone. "Should we, uh, should we do something?"

Scott shrugs, looking a little terrified to make a move. It's clear the boys have never been out here together. Lydia hadn't been back since the funeral. This is strange ground for all of them. As though compelled by some outside force, they line up facing the grave, Scott and Stiles on either side of Lydia. It's moments like these that test Lydia's belief that this all real. The four of them had been through so much together. Other people had come in and of their lives – Jackson, Isaac, Kira, Malia, the twins. But it had always been the four of them – movie nights and unintentional sleepovers and studying and laughing and screaming and living through nightmares. As many times as she reads her best friend's tombstone, it will never make sense to her. It should be the four of them, like always.

As though sensing her thoughts, Scott reaches out to grab her hand. He feels so warm and alive that it makes Lydia's eyes water. Though the fear of rejection has her mind screaming to stop, she can't help but reach out her other hand, fingers searching for Stiles. Her hand brushes the back of his and after a heartbeat, his fingers are winding around hers. Lydia looks up at him and though she's sure he can sense her gaze, he doesn't meet her eyes. Instead, he stares ahead, jaw tightening slightly.

Accepting this, she turns back to Allison. Strangely, she can't help but feel happier than she has in a year. She has her boys on either side, tethered to her in the most tangible touch she's felt in a long time. Maybe she's not alone as she thought.

...

"Hey, there's this thing tomorrow night. At Derek's place."

She turns to look at the two of them, already having been making her way to her car after a short wave and a smile goodbye.

"What do you mean a thing?" Lydia can feel her face shifting into her patented suspicious expression. Realization dawns on her a second later. "Wait, do you mean a _party_?"

Scott lets out a bark of a laugh. "Yeah, like we haven't done that before."

Lydia scoffs, shifting so she's facing them more fully, hands on her hips. "The last party we all went to was at my lake house and like usual, some of us almost died. We aren't so good at parties, remember?"

Stiles and Scott share a look. It's not like she doesn't have a point.

"Well, it's been months since then. And it's Malia's birthday, so we want to do something special." Stiles' hand nervously scratches the back of his neck when he says this and suddenly he's the boy she knew at sixteen. Afraid of disappointing her at all costs.

Unfortunately for them both, there's no ignoring the pang of jealousy in her stomach and the anxiousness of her shaking hands.

"Oh. Well okay, I'll try and be there."

Stiles merely nods in response and Scott smiles, walking forward to embrace her again. "I'm so glad you're back, Lyds," he whispers into her hair.

And he might not be the one she wants to hear it from, but she responds with a tentative smile all the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** I'm so sorry I haven't been uploading recently. I was backpacking in Europe, falling in love with Scottish musicians, and coming back to school to deal with ex-boyfriends. I've found I can only write when I'm completely alone - if I'm happy or sad over anyone, I can't get inspired. Luckily for all of us, I'm back in that place again. This chapter is one I'm really nervous to post - probably because not only is it Stiles and Lydia, but the dangers of drunk confrontations are ones I've experienced way too recently. Anyway, this is for sure the sexiest thing I've posted in a while which always makes me freak a bit and I really would like to hear y'alls opinion! Thanks for reading! (I promise the next update won't be such a long wait!)

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><p>Tilting her head up to the ceiling of Derek Hale's loft, she tries reigning in her thoughts. The bass is pounding in her ears and the lights are dancing across her glazed eyes. She can feel Danny next to her, his body moving in unison with hers as though they've danced this exact dance a thousand times. And in a past life, they had. When all she worried about was getting drunk and playing dumb. She feels transported back in time, her head light and her brain an empty net, casting out into the crowded room and finding nothing to catch her interest but the music and the lights and the giggles bubbling up her throat.<p>

She's drunk. She hadn't meant to get drunk, but now she's here and it feels like the funniest thing to have happened to her in a lifetime. She hadn't even really meant to come at all but then there had been Kira standing at her front door and she had been so _nice _and soon Lydia was wearing a too-short dress, standing in the middle of the biggest party Beacon Hills had seen in years. She's still moving rhythmically, Danny's hands guiding her when she missteps, but her brow is furrowed, mind trying to trace a line from the dress to the drinking. And of course the connecting link can be summed up in one word: Stiles.

It's not exactly a sobering thought (she's too far gone for that), but it stops her movement almost instantly. Danny stops moving as well, peering into her face. "Are you okay?!" He's shouting at her over the music, the smell of whiskey on his breath. Lydia nods in response, trying to focus on the light playing on his face. He smiles at her encouragingly, taking her hand to get her moving again, and she goes along with it, thinking of how joyful he was to see her. She had forgotten how much fun she and Danny used to have – Jackson went through phases of ignoring them both during those early years, and they were always there for one another.

And Danny was perceptive. He had taken one look at Lydia standing stricken on the dance floor when she had arrived, eyes glued to Malia and Stiles – her hair wild and legs long, his hands tipping a drink to his mouth and lingering on her hips – and stolen her away, shouting about catching up and the absolute need to do shots. So that's what they had done. Scott and Kira had joined briefly, but were soon off in their own little bubble, swaying to music much too fast for that kind of dancing. Malia had stomped over and hugged Lydia tightly, then stole a shot out of Lydia's grip, downing it quickly – she was convinced Scott was lying about the werewolves getting drunk thing.

And Stiles hadn't acknowledged Lydia's presence, talking seemingly to everyone but her.

...

"He's really into this whole 'human' thing," Malia explained, pouring herself another drink, oblivious to the tense sips Lydia was taking of her own in response to this line of conversation. "He says we need to be more social, make more friends. Be members of society. You know, after everything. I'm finding it a little…difficult."

Lydia couldn't help but snort at that, the alcohol making it difficult to hide her reaction. Malia looked a bit confused, but then just grinned over the rim of her drink in Stiles' general direction as he made large gesturing movements to Scott across the dance floor, spilling a bit of beer in the process.

"Was he always like this? Before?" she asks, tipping her head towards Lydia good-naturedly, and Lydia can't ignore the lurch in her stomach at the question. They both appraise him for a moment, watching the two best friends dorky dance, Stiles clearly intoxicated, Scott laughing hysterically, and Kira watching them both embarrassedly.

"Yeah, I guess he was." And she's never more felt more guilty for who she had been before. She had barely seen him – even with the atrocious dancing, he never would have appeared on her radar at this party. She wouldn't have smiled at him the way Malia was.

...

It seems that realization was all she needed to spurn herself on to the state she was in now, pulling away from her dance partner and stumbling out of the crowd. The comforting press of all the people had suddenly turned claustrophobic and she feels overwhelmed. How had she gotten this _drunk_?

She's focusing on her feet, trying not to trip, moving down the dark hallway towards the bathroom. The music is duller here, merely a throbbing beat she can feel through the floorboards. Someone passes her laughing, and she keeps her head down, long hair swinging to hide her face. She doesn't want to have a conversation right now.

"Fuck!"

Lydia recognizes the voice with a sharp tug of anxiousness and sure enough, it's him, stumbling out of the bathroom. She drunkenly considers just turning around, pretending that she was never here. But he's regained his balance and is looking her way and she stays rooted in place, eyes wide.

She sees the second that his face changes in the dim light – from drunk indifference to frustration – as he sees her, dress rumpled and hair tangled.

"Lydia! Hey!"

"Hey, Stiles." She tries moving past him, pressing her back against the wall to skirt around him. Sensing her movement, he stumbles in front of her, blocking her path.

"I just need to use the bathroom." She can feel the alcohol swirling around in her stomach, mixing with her nerves and the unexpected fear of the boy looming over her.

"Wait, I-I need to talk to you. Or you need to talk to me." His voice is lower, rougher, and all of a sudden she's having difficulty swallowing. She's not sure if she's breathing at all anymore, his face too close to hers to process.

"Yes?" She tries to sound snarky, tries to gain control of her stuttering heart and the situation by sounding assertive and brave and unaffected.

"How could you do this, Lydia? How could you leave? We-I- everyone needed you."

He sounds so angry and broken and Lydia has never felt so small. She can't even bring her eyes up to his face when she answers him, settling for trying to focus her drunken gaze on his collarbone.

"It didn't seem like you needed me." She's drunk and her sadness is too close to the surface, too raw for her to ignore. "It didn't seem like anyone needed me." She realizes with a dull ache that she's crying again, warm tears making their way down her face.

It's only when she feels the uneven breaths on her forehead after a few moments that she realizes he's crying too. Startled, she turns her face up to look at him. Stiles doesn't look down, instead staring ahead at the wall behind her, screwing up his face to stop himself from letting the tears fall.

And it's seeing this hopeless effort to remain strong that propels her forward, both hands grasping the soft fabric of his shirt, tugging him towards her. He falls into her easily, wrapping his long arms around her, one hand instinctively tangling in her hair and the other hard on her hip. She can feel his heart under her palms and the heat of his body through her dress and _oh god, it's too much._

Lydia doesn't know how long they stand there, wound around each other. She thinks she could stay here the rest of her life, mind hazy and Stiles' fingers drumming out a soft pattern on her waist. It feels safe: the music distant, the dark sheltering them both from friends and enemies and nightmares. It's just them – for the first time in so long.

She feels his heart speed up against her as he moves deliberately, twisting his head and gently placing his lips on her neck. She can feel his mouth forming words on her skin – it could be _I love you _or _I'm sorry_ but she can't break the spell by asking questions or telling him they are both supposed to love someone else now. She does the only thing she's capable of, extending her neck and pulling him even closer. He groans into her throat, mouth moving against her skin eagerly. And if she had been sober or less distracted, she would have remembered the exact moment his lips touched hers. Lydia would have stressed over the timing or whether she was doing the right things, a perfectionist no matter what. But as it is, their mouths seem to fall together, already open and searching, and there's no thinking at all. It's all instinct and hands and the taste of salt and moans she can't bring herself to be embarrassed by. It's never been like this.

...

It's only when his hands make their way under her dress and she's stammering out a broken _please_ – sounding more desperate than she ever has - into the hollow of his throat that they come to their senses. Stiles jolts away from her in seconds, shaken out of his trance by the need in her voice, pinning himself to the opposite wall. His eyes are nearly black and wilder than she's ever seen them, tracing a path up her legs to where her dress is bunched around her waist.

"I'm sorry." His voice is raspy and shaking and makes her stomach twist violently.

"Stiles, don't."

"I should go. I-I have to go."

She says nothing and he doesn't try to touch her again. She closes her eyes as she hears his footsteps moving away from her in the dark, hands drunkenly tugging her dress back down as soon as she's alone.

And because things can't get any worse and they so rarely get better for her these days, the alcohol turns in her stomach and she's retching in the middle of the hallway almost immediately, body convulsing and eyes streaming tears of both shame and loss.

Her last coherent thought before sliding into unconsciousness is that Derek was going to kill her for the mess.


End file.
